Ambassador's Party
by Milwaukee Meg
Summary: When there is assasination planned at ambassador's party, Mycroft gets Sherlock and John to help preventing it. But sometimes everything goes wrong...Enter BAMF!John!
1. Chapter 1

A/N This is Chapter one of two - you might view this one as an opening, with real action in second one. Rating is a bit high because of a few cuss words, especially in the second part.

Enjoy! And please, whether you like it or not, please review, there is nothing better than even two or three words of opinion!

* * *

PART 1

"This is ridiculous!" was the first thing John heard from the flat while climbed up the stairs, three TESCO bags full of food (and milk!) in each hand. John barely stopped himself from groaning in frustration; not 'stupid' or 'retarded', but 'ridiculous'. This could mean only one thing – Mycroft came over with a case they can't refuse (John was positive that if they did, Mycroft would BUY them a horse, and decapitate it just to prove his point).

"Now, Sherlock, it is a matter of global importance" said Mycroft in his 'I'm dealing with a overgrown child here, yes, you, don't look over your shoulder stupid' voice. John, curious, pressed his ear to the door to hear everything better. Knowing what is going on is one thing; revealing himself to Mycroft was, on the other hand, something he would rather skip if possible.

"The matter is so vital to our geopolitics, that I should probably have a person, who by any chance wanted to eavesdrop by the door, killed in very messy and non – humanitarian way" continued Mycroft and John almost dropped the bags. He was not a doctor and soldier for nothing, however, he could deal with three crises before breakfast and even have some free time left to watch TV. He waited exactly two minutes, before taking deep breath and opening the door.

"No worries, I can manage, Sherlock, you don't have to stand up, really… Mycroft, what a nice SURPRISE!" he managed to add a tingle of delight in his voice, but the skeptical looks, eerily similar, from both brothers stopped him from saying anything else except small "Hi".

"As I was saying, Sherlock, it should be simple enough for you. All you have to do is dress in the tuxedo I shall bring you, go on the party in Polish Embassy, have a drink or two and find the murderer before he can murder anyone." Said Mycroft, stressing every other word with o swing of his umbrella, held as if it was a final argument in any case (or, what more probable, as if there was a magic wand hidden inside and older Holmes was practicing '_imperio_'). Sherlock, holding _en garde_ his violin bow, made a 'pfft' noise, and added, as if explaining himself, "Boring".

"Wait, is it murderer if he hasn't murdered anyone yet?" wondered aloud John, what was a more sophisticated equivalent for "What the hell is going on?"

"My sources have given me the information that a murder will take place at the party in Polish embassy" explained Mycroft pleasantly, smiling like Cheshire Cat after botox treatment. Both Holmses knew that if John was convinced a case was worth taking, Sherlock would, albeit unhappily, take it.

"Who will be murdered?"

"We don't know"

"Oh. And who could be a murderer?"

"Well, everyone that will be in the embassy at the time, no saying if it will be another guest, someone from the staff or hired gun…"

"I strongly suspect that your source is a fortune cookie" mocked Sherlock. " 'Beware of murderers in Polish embassy', indeed."

Mycroft ignored him pointedly, and turned to face John, who was still standing in the kitchen.

"Your marksmanship, Doctor, can be invaluable on this case…"

"WHAT? I am not bloody going to any party in any embassy!" shrieked John in horror, trying to suppress his memories from the only ball he attended while being in the army. Oh, those three chandeliers he shattered by accident were nothing, also spilling vine on a dress of general's wife could be forgiven, as well as tripping and falling on a cellist. But pulling the tablecloths off from all four tables at once, throwing _everything _on the floor… that was a little too much for everybody. Especially because he was absolutely sober, and he did that completely _accidentally_. The joke could have been understood by his army colleagues… but this was beyond everything they ever encountered. No, John did not want to go through this again, thank you very much.

"Doctor, I will say that once" said Myrcoft, pointing his damned umbrella at smaller man, who prepared himself for _avada kedavra_. "Close your eyes and think of England! Your country needs you. Besides… "he added after a minute of thought "there will be no tablecloths there"

"Oh" was the only thing that came out of John's mouth, and it was a condensated and shortened version of his entire speech about serving his country, his war wounds and not understanding what Mycroft meant by those tablecloths! Sherlock 'tsk'ed in the background.

"But there will be cellist and some general's wives, regardless… All right, Mycroft, we'll do it, if you stop this ongoing invigilation in our flat"

"What invigilation?" asked innocently Mycroft, trying his best not to smile to one of hidden cameras. "Alas, good. I will get rid of those people NOT following you, of course. But I've got a surprise for you. On this case you'll have backup…"

"No. N.O. Mycroft, if you do this, we're out, we're more out than Australia!" shrieked, _yes, _shrieked, Sherlock, waving furiously with his violin bow around. 'Not THEM! They're the worst agents EVER"

"No, they are not!" huffed Mycroft his pride visibly hurt with insinuation that _his_ workers were anything but best. "They just have… attention deficit. And issues. Many issues. Agents Caph and Cujam!"

There was some hustle behind the door, painful yelp, sound of something heavy falling down the stairs, shriek of surprise from Mrs Hudson, and eventually door opened up a little.

"Sorry, this was meant to be our dramatic entrance, but from all the drama and awsomess Cujam just fell down the stairs… Ah, here he is. Can we do that again? Just, Boss, please say our names again and we'll enter in friggin' badass way, okay?" said Caph, plumpy blonde with hair in messy bun.

This was going to be such a disaster, thought John while Mycroft made (very loudly) sure that his minions will not try anything so badass in near future. Sherlock probably thought something similar, as he started playing funeral march on his violin.

* * *

The debriefing, which was called by Mycrof 'light lunch', was short and straight to the point. Mycroft supplied each of them with thick folder of loose sheets, some showing schematics of the embassy, some being the personal files of some of the most important guests and hosts. Sherlock promptly opened it, shuffled through, and with a frequently practiced and graceful movement of wrist send it flying into nearest bin. He sat on a chair, his legs drawn up and chin resting on his knees; his entire posture was indicating major sulk, what was starting to aggravate John more and more. Not only he had to dress up, go to some stupid party he'll crash and burn, but also he had to deal with moping Sherlock… And moping Sherlock was an overgrown 5 year old with moodswings and a likening for drama.

Mycroft was in a full blown attack of word diarrhea, for seventeenth time (John actually counted) explaining the importance of the case and importance of discretion. Doctor learned to tune out Holmes brothers once they got into speech frenzy, but it didn't mean he wasn't bored with pretending he actually cared what Mycroft said.

He shuffled through the papers, albeit he didn't even try to absorb those facts presented. There were no general's wives' files, so it wouldn't help him much, would it. On his left, both agents, seated at another table as if to show their lower status, were writing down some notes … John tilted back on a chair to get better view. No, not taking notes – they were drawing quite nice caricatures of Mycroft, umbrella and all. And that characteristic smirk… Kids had talent, he had to admit.

"So, now you know what to do. And please, try not to cause international incident… No Sherlock, it is not a challenge" said with definitive warning in his calm as usual voice, Mycroft, standing up suddenly. John felt a tingle of worry, for he had no illusions that Sherlock was listening, as he was lost to the world right now, sulking and thinking of the ways to destroy their kitchen; he didn't hear a thing Mycroft said, preoccupied with art, what led him to a terrifying conclusion, that no one really knew what they were meant to be doing and why.

He stood up, wondering if asking 'wut?' will be damaging to his ego, but before he had time to decide, Anthea-Who-Was-Not-Anthea appeared, carrying two tuxedos wrapped neatly in foil in one hand, and two strange red uniforms with white lapels.

"That's what you will wear, try not to ruin it. Mr. Holmes, that is not a challenge." From the disappointed grunt that Sherlock made, John deduced that he had at least seven highly intelligent plans how to ruin his tux in a very anti-Mycroft way.

"And we're going to work in a kitchen?" this words, full of distaste and surprise, left previously tightly sealed mouth of Cujam, who was wondering what else could go wrong today. He hated kitchens, he hated working in a kitchen, and he hated that cheerful voice of Caph, who exclaimed suddenly:

"Cool, I always wanted to be a cook!"

"No, you didn't" piped in Cujam, who reminded himself that he was talking to overgrown child with strange fascination with porn (or fan fiction, as she always clarified).

"Okay, I didn't" admitted she cheerfully. "But my sister did."

"You don't _have_ a sister"

"But if I had, she would want to be a cook! Ha, in your FACE"

"This is going to be a looong evening" muttered Sherlock, as he and John made their way, tuxedos in their hands, to dress themselves up while two (still bickering) agents were instructed by Anthea. John had to agree.

* * *

Polish embassy turned out to be small building jammed between two high tenement houses, surrounded by subtly posh cars and not so subtly richly dressed people, men in tuxes dragging by elbows their spouses (because in those high spheres no one would go on the important ball a lover, John was sure, especially not that bad looking, as the most of those women were). John tugged on the uncomfortably tight collar of his shirt, that he was sure was made of some light metal, bent in right shape. It was impossible for a cloth to be this stiff and … well, smooth. He looked, once again, at the dignified pairs near the embassy entrance. Then it hit him.

'Wait!' he practically shrieked, full of bad feelings like friggin Obi Wan Kenobi, 'I wasn't invited, was I? As whom am I coming in?'

The silence, and the fact that both Holmes brothers (bastards managed to look comfortable in those tuxes) suddenly found that umbrella handle or the car ceiling can be extremely _fascinating_, told John everything he wanted to know.

'No… No, I'm not coming as Sherlock's date!' he waved his forefinger in a menacing (or so he chose to think) way, sick and tired of all those innuendos. Sherlock puffed in annoyance.

'Don't be ridiculous, you're most certainly not my date' the disgusted way he said it gave John the urge to take offence (what, is he not good enough), but two second later he settled on joyful 'Okay' instead.

'You're coming as Mycroft's date, of course' added Sherlock in this bored tone of his, like it was the most obvious thing of all. 'Honestly, John, he's the one with invitation'

John was, for once, completely speechless. He casted a glance at Mycroft, who beamed at him with his 'I'm superior, but still I try to be nice to you, little worms' smile. Oh, God.

'You two better pray there really is assassination attempt, because if not… I'll kill you both. Slowly. And painfully. And slowly' quiet chuckles from both Holmes brothers only agitated him further. 'Okay, don't believe me, your constitutional right. But I was an army surgeon… And a _bloody good one_, so it won't be very hard for me to keep you alive while cutting out your livers without anesthetics.'

'I believe we should be going now' said, seemingly not concerned Mycroft, but John noticed with satisfaction, that he become a little paler. 'We cannot be that late, two minutes are enough.' With a help of very spider-like chauffeur, they had gotten out of the car and headed for the door, where stood small, round man in army uniform covered in medals, his face hidden by extraordinarily big and… well, hairy, moustache. John knew he was being really impolite, but he just couldn't stop looking at those two ferrets glued to the man's face.

'Ah, Mr. Holmes, such a pleasure, such a pleasure!' small man beamed with pride and cheerfulness, catching Mycroft by forearms, and forcing him to bend a little just to kiss him loudly on both cheeks. 'I'd welcome you with bread and salt, but Stefan wants to be more western than traditional, ah, come in, come in… And those lads are…?'

It seemed that the attention span and sight of this man were impaired, decided John a bit offended by the casual 'lad', thrown in his face… and to avoid being kissed, he made a tactical retreat behind Sherlock's back.

'That is Sherlock, my brother, and doctor John Watson, my _partner_' smiled innocently Mycroft, while maneuvering doctor from his (not very good one, but only available at the time) hiding place. 'Sherlock, John, let me introduce general Jan Rzepicki, a resident of polish embassy.'

John managed dignified 'nice to meet you, general' sulkily holding elbow offered by his (oh Lord) _partner_, but Sherlock was far more eloquent.

'You are an alcoholic and heavy smoker, with sadomasochistic tendencies. Your wife left you several years ago, because of your romance with male secretary, and your son is homosexual…' he stated, casting self-satisfied glances at Mycroft, who opened his mouth to stop him before thing turned nasty, but general was quicker.

'Why, aren't you a bright lad?' he laughed, patting completely baffled Sherlock on the back. 'Come in, come in, don't let all those ladies wait for you. And If I were you, Mycroft, I'd keep an eye on your boy, such a pretty lad like John will have more than a few admirers' John felt the heat come on his cheeks, when general winked at him. He didn't knew what was worse, that he was considered attractive by a man… or that he felt flattered by it.

'Oh, certainly, Jan, thank you… Well, we won't be blocking the entrance any longer' said Mycroft, and smiled even wider, as did Sherlock. John ignored them both. One general's wife less to care about, that must be a good omen.

When elderly general started chatting with another couple, Mycroft released John and stopped, bendng a little to prevent others from hearing.

'Keep your eyes open, both of you, if anything strange, unusual or worrying comes up, find me immediately. Caph and Cujam will be in the kitchen, my trusted waiter will swap information between us…'

'Er… Mycroft? Does a cancan dace by 70 years old lady counts as something strange, unusual or worrying?' asked John, looking on their left, where eally eldery lady in glittering and horrendously short dress stood on a table waving her legs franticly in the air. Sherlock looked positively ill at the sight, but his brother just ignored interruption.

'… and try not to cause international incident, please. That goes to you, Sherlock. And It's not a challenge'

'Says you…'

* * *

Smuggling Sherlock on this party was not his brightest idea, admitted Mycroft to himself, scanning the room in search of his brother while talking to some Arabic attaché who was convinced that everyone is as interested in Jaguars as he is. The situation they all found themselves in was quite delicate – Polish were to be left in the dark about the assassination, as this would complicate further affair between them and Russians, and with upcoming changes in Egypt… The matter had to be dealt with in most discreet way. Besides Mycroft had a been convinced that it was this troublesome man, Moriarty, behind this, so dragging Sherlock in would be the best in case. If you want to catch a thief, you send a thief. To catch a brilliant, unpredictable psychopath… you send Sherlock, simple and easy. Mostly because Morarty will think, how Sherlock would think, and Sherlock would think, what would Moriarty think. So they would be completely lost in thoughts and they wouldn't make any more difficulties for Mycroft. Ah, that would be perfect.

In that moment his overly sensitive to deep voice o his brother ears caught word 'pedophile' said somewhere o his left. He excused himself and in two long (but dignified, of course) strides he reached Sherlock, who was in a middle of his deduction tirade.

'… and your dog, basset, is ill now because you have fed him olives with anchovies that were out of date, and about that adultery…'

'That is more than enough, Sherlock' Mycroft cut in sternly, patting his arm with more force than it was really necessary.

'Great, I was finished, anyway. Goodbye, Mr. Yu, it was nice to meet such… interesting pedophile' sneered Sherlock, leaving with a swirl of his coat. Mycroft blinked. Coat? How, for the love of England, did he manage to smuggle in his _coat_?

'I am terribly sorry, terribly, I do not know what had gotten in him today. Being a pedophile is not your fault…or rather not really' said Mycroft softly to Chinese ambassador, who still stood unmoving, as if in shock, positively green. Holmes opened his mouth to offer more moral support, when with a corner of his eye he caught Sherlock, gesturing wildly at Czech cultural attaché, who started sobbing quietly.

'Excuse me, I'll be back in a minute…' he managed to get through clenched teeth. 'Mummy will so hear about this, Sherlock, you just wait.' He murmured, pushing through the crowd.

* * *

John hated to admit it, but he was quite enjoying himself. Remembering his previous experiences, he kept away from clothed tables, general wives (clothed or not) and orchestra, but as close as possible to young ladies in short and tight dresses. Yes, this evening, he reflected as Mary Morstan, daughter of some Canadian attaché fed him grapes to complete delight of other giggling ladies, could be salvageable.

'Maybe a drink?' asked suddenly male voice on his left. John turned, alarmed, just to see Cujam in perfect waiter's attire, holding a tray with wine glasses.

'What?'

'A drink, sir, maybe you or one the ladies would want a drink' secret agent explained, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. John felt the urge to strange him, has those guys ever heard of something as a plan?

'No, thank you very much' he answered calmly, trying to telepathically show Cujam it really meant _You stupid bloody idiot, what the hell are you doing here!_. Clearly, his magical skills left much to be desired, as Cujam continued on as happily (or rather indifferently) as before, gracefully passing drinks to giggling ladies, winked at John, and left in two or three swift moves. Good. John went back to having best time of his life with young blondes.

Or rather, he wanted to, if the very meaningful cough from above his head didn't freeze his blood.

'Enjoying yourself, John?' asked Mycroft; for someone who encountered the man for the first time his tone could be neutral, amused, even. But John felt the vibe of anger in there, and had to count to tree before turning not to look like a teenager caught watching porn by his mother.

'Yes, actually, we were having most delightful conversation going on here' well, John was a soldier after all, he could stand his ground. Mycroft smiled at the girls with such a venom, that they fled almost right away, offering lame excuses if any. Before John thought of something to say (and sorted out why actually he felt guilty), Mycroft dragged him behind the column, where they were mostly hidden from the rest of guests. That didn't bid good, did it? Under piercing gaze of older Holmes John was contemplating whether he was brought here to be berated, or to be kissed (and he honestly couldn't decide which was worse).

'You saw agents Cujam and Caph as waiters?' asked Mycroft, coming straight to the point for what John was extremely grateful. 'This was not a part of the plan; find out what is this all about, I have to stop this insane flatmate of yours from causing world war three…'

'Don't let him hear that, he'll take it as a challenge' warned John, and then rethought what Mycroft really said. 'He's your brother, not my flatmate! Oh, ok, he's my flatmate too, but don't you dare to blame ME for his… his craziness!'

'Well, I am not the one who lets him keep body parts in the fridge!' snapped Mycroft, which was so unlike him, that John's jaw dropped. 'That spoils him!'

'What? Spoils him? And who lets him get away with everything? He probably could murder half of bloody London and you'd just sigh and say something about upsetting mummy!'

'Awww… How sweet, lovers' quarrel!' giggled tall, lanky man with goatee, who appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed. Mycroft instantly mellowed.

'Ah, Mr. Rominiecow, how nice to see you here…' started he, but Russian ambassador cut in instantly.

'Your brother, I presume, tall, dark curly hair, is now talking with Americans. Loudly. And not very diplomatically …'

'Thank you, ambassador, I'll take care of it right away.' Before leaving Mycroft turned to doctor (who sighed and nodded his head, understanding that he didn't exactly came here to entertain young, pretty, blond girls) and gave him a slight peck on a cheek, just to keep up appearances in front of Russian ambassador, who made at this his girly 'awww' sigh again.

'You're extremely nice couple' offered Rominiecow, leading John out of the dark corner, clutching his arm a little too tightly for smaller man's comfort, both psychical and psychological. 'I shall go now, but if you ever want to talk about this kind of relationship… You can always knock to the door of Russian embassy.'

'I think I'll pass' muttered John as a goodbye, what didn't save him from a slap on his ass from winking Rominiecow. This evening was a disaster, and with every minute cutting out Holmesian livers sounded better and better…

* * *

If John thought that catching one of the agents would be easy in the crowd that occupied the embassy, he was very, very wrong. Thirty minutes, two bizarre conversations about Thai Internet and one about implications of wool prices in Columbia later he was no closer to finding Caph and Cujam than to finding cure for common cold.

He desperately looked around.

'You're lost, doctor?' said a deep voice above his left arm, causing him to drop the glass of vine he took from one of the waiters who were not agents. John turned around, only to find himself face to face with endlessly amused Sherlock.

'Having fun, John? Because I just discovered why Mycroft enjoys those social events!' Sherlock was smiling as if there was at least a dozen dead bodies scattered on the floor, not about seventy living ones in fairly good shape. 'Can you believe that Brazilian ambassador is a serial killer? It's all so _exciting_! And this brunette, wife of polish minister is in fact…'

'Sherlock' interrupted John swiftly, not really wanting to know most personal details, at least not now. 'Have you seen Caph and/or Cujam? I can't find them anywhere, and…'

'Oh, this is beautiful, look at this blonde in red dress…' muttered Sherlock, and John wondered, not for the first time, why no one had younger Holmes diagnosed with ADHD. But, of course, he looked obediently in pointed direction.

'Jeanie Bessette' supplied John, adding unhelpfully 'good aim at throwing grapes.'

'… She's got a gun hidden under that short dress of hers!' giggled Sherlock, behaving suspiciously as if he was drunk. John sniffed, just to be sure that his friend (who was about to become murdered, oh, screw the liver and slow death, John wanted to do it NOW) really wasn't, and then, it hit him.

'How the hell do you know what she has under her dress?'

'How do you know she's good at throwing grapes?' Sherlock could make even this question sound like an insult, so John, folding his hands defensively, retorted quite brilliantly, if someone asked him.

'It was an experiment. I did it for science!'

'So did I' answered Sherlock, but before John had a chance to ask what the hell did he mean (and why was he cheating on his work!), he started pushing through the crowd, disappearing among the well dress people. 'I've got to go, there is Mycroft on my trail!'

'I'm really sorry for everything he… Ah, It's you, John' Mycroft was actually panting. 'Good. What did you find?'

'Sherlock, two guys groping my ass and three girls that wanted…' one look at Mycroft's face confirmed his nagging suspicions that maybe small talk about kinky intercourses were not welcomed, not very warmly, at least. 'But no sign of Caph and Cujam… When I saw him before he seemed quite happy, so I don't…'

'Psst! Boss!' The tray appeared exactly on John's eye level, and after throughout examination it became clear that there was Cujam attached on the other end. 'We're in shit! Caph was kidnapped!'

* * *

The room that Mycroft had secretly, of course, gotten access appeared to be woman's bedroom, with king-sized bed, enormous wardrobe, and several mirrors hanging in strategic points. They were sitting reluctantly on pink puffs scattered around on the floor, trying not to look as uncomfortable, as they felt. Cujam, still red from either excitement or anger, was panting slightly, shaking his head very twenty seconds and muttering something to himself.

Sherlock and Mycroft, on the other hand, were sitting deadly still.

'Okay, so Caph saw, just like Sherlock, that Jeanie had a gun. She started following her, and you lost her from your sight, right?' John tried to make some sense from the scraps of sentences, that left agents mouth; moreover, Sherlock was just dragged upstairs by his furious brother, and didn't hear it at all.

' Yeah, and then I went down to the kitchen… You've got to go near the restrooms, there, and here I saw Caph, led on gunpoint by blonde in really short red dress' finished Cujam, with a sigh. 'She was covering it with her handbag, so it wasn't obvious, but, hey, I'm not a secret agent for nothing. They were there for… seven minutes, thirty seconds, and then lady in red came out, without Caph or he gun, and got back to the party.'

Sherlock squinted eyes in concentration, Mycroft started playing with his umbrella, John just waited for them to state the obvious.

'Last cabin, pipes' muttered Sherlock, and Mycroft shook his head.

'Sink, Sherlock, I believe it was sink'

'Sink yourself! Seven minutes would be sufficient…'

'No, they don't want to raise alarm! They…'

'Hello? Are we going to tell Polish ambassador what is going on now?' asked John, waving his hand to wake and shake them up a bit. Three pairs of surprised eyes turned to him, blinking in disbelieve.

'Of course not, don't be stupid John, it cannot get out to public!' Sherlock was agitated, and all former elation just vaporized. He suddenly stood up in one leap got to wardrobe and opened it wide, scanning its contents. From John saw, there were just bunches of dresses, in all kinds and shapes. After a moment, to John's utter surprise, he took out one and analyzed carefully. 'We need to know what is going on in the ladies room' he stated after a while.

'Yes, but our only female agent is inside and probably can't get out… And all of us are, in fact, men' pointed out John, certainly not liking the way Sherlock was examining long, gold dress covered with sequins. And he certainly did not like those calculating looks he was getting from both Holmes brothers. Nor the fact that Cujam was switching his gaze between John and the dress. Not a bit.

'John…' started Sherlock, in this bloody voice of his that made everyone feel like the worst bastard if they didn't do just what he said. Mycroft was already searching through cosmetics lying on the davenport in the corner.

'No. I will not wear the bloody dress, forget it!' shrieked John in panic. 'No bloody way!'

'John, be reasonable. We need to get in there and…' started Mycroft, a bit too calmly for John's taste. This wasn't a calm before a storm; it was a calm before tsunami.

'I don't see any of you, _reasonable people,_ wearing this ridiculous thing!' snapped doctor, not missing the wolfish look on Sherlock face. 'I've got short hair, and my legs are all hairy. And I don't look like a bloody girl!'

'Oh, of course, it's alright John, I didn't know that you were having troubles with accepting your masculinity' said Sherlock casually, smiling maliciously. 'Denial, my dear doctor, is such a sweet thing. See, you look better than both Cujam and Mycroft (not a big deal, by the way, I've seen dead wombats with better presence) and while I could make a more convincing woman, I am too tall for those dresses. But if you are unsure of your manhood…'

'Gimmie that dress, and stop looking smug' managed eventually John, just bloody tired by the whole thing. Besides, thinking of Caph dead body, hanging from some pipe in ladies room made him uneasy enough not to really care if the bunch of perverts from all around the globe saw him as a drag queen or not. Besides, he came as Mycroft's date, so there was also high possibility that he would be humiliating older Holmes as well, what was rather nice concept at the moment.

Getting into the dress was quite an accomplishment on John's part, because he really didn't have curves in right paces and his shoulders were a bit too broad so the zipping was not only hazardous, but also required much force (Cujam even suggested using shoehorn, but the idea was quickly dropped when John started talking about livers, scalpel and no anesthetics). But with couple of socks and thighs on the front, in high heels that were, surprisingly only a bit too small, with the blond wig on his head (found miraculously in bottom drawer of the wardrobe by Sherlock, who managed to turn strangely looking mop into quite nice hair-do), and with makeup put on him by Mycroft (doctor just didn't want to know, not really), John looked… nice. Like a really nice, maybe not exactly pretty, but reasonably not ugly woman in her mid-thirties.

What didn't cheer John up, not at all. Especially not when Mycroft's hand was tracing the line of zipper a bit too eagerly, or was lingering on his cheek a moment too long. Not that John had anything against… God, he had. He had everything against his flatmate's older brother who is the British Government finding him attractive in woman's clothing. Especially in woman's clothing. He pushed those thoughts aside, in favor of images of Caph, bleeding out on restroom's floor, blood slowly outlining the tiles. Yes, it was what he should be concentrating on, not his … feelings (what feelings?) for Mycroft. Nope.

The final touch was provided by Cujam, who with great deliberation handed him small, black handbag.

'It's her bag, inside is her phone, your gun and lots of girly stuff you probably should have, just in case someone gets to look' he explained, his expression grave. John smiled, in vain trying to reassure young agent.

'Don't worry, dear, I'll give it back to her' he answered in higher, more girly voice, checking the gun. With a corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock was smiling evilly, toying with his phone. 'No, Sherlock, you are NOT recording this, and NOT sending it to Harry.'

'Oh, I never wanted to send it to Harry, don't worry. But I always thought that Science of deduction lacked YouTube channel…'

'This is not the way one should treat a lady, Sherlock' said Mycroft, offering elegantly his elbow to John, who draped himself over it a bit too eagerly, even for himself.

* * *

'Where the hell is everyone?' muttered John, walking a bit unsteadily (damned heels) towards the restroom. Usually full of people walking to the toilet, waiters with trays, giggling young girls and smokers, now it was completely empty, so the echo of doctor's steps could be heard. Sherlock and Mycroft noticed something is off when they heard… well, then they did not hear a thing. It was calm. It was quiet. There was no music to be heard, no laughter and no metallic sound of cutlery in use.

Cujam was immediately send out to see what was going on in the kitchen, while Sherlock (with his coat spreading like a superhero's cape) run down to see the ballroom. Mycroft had turned then to John, his fingers digging deep into smaller man's arm. And then, with a swift and messy kiss on a cheek, after quick 'be careful', Mycroft, too, was gone.

'Bloody Holmes' spat John angrily, not really knowing if he meant Sherlock for, well, dragging him into this insane world of crime and science, or rather Mycroft, for being stupid British Government, and his bloody kisses on the cheek.

Ladies room was also peaceful and quiet, strangely completely empty. Not even one woman, checking her makeup; all cabins opened wide, except one, tagged 'out of order, sorry for inconvenience' in several languages. So at lest he found where Caph was.

Several small and unstable steps later he was leaning on the door, trying to force them in, what is not easy when you are balancing on high heels.

'Aw, hell' he sighed, and gathered momentum, what opened the door at the impact, all right, but it also sent John on the floor of the cabin, face down. He groaned in pain, rising his head… and he found himself face to face with tightly tied up and gagged Caph, who stared trashing violently and babbling through the cloth over her mouth.

'Hi, I'm John, don't you recognize me? Well, I'm glad to find you alive' he wanted to calm her down, but she didn't stop trashing, her eyes, as he observed, fixed on something above him. Shit. While getting the gun out from behind himself, he mouthed 'one?' to distraught girl, and she nodded evenly, but didn't stop trying to get out of her bonds. She finally did when the click of unlocking the gun cut through the air.

'Hello, girl, didn't see you round here' purred girly and squeaky voice from above him. He smiled, recognizing Jeanie, who was full six feet of sex and had really deadly aim.

'Oh lookie here, and I just have a thing for those last cabins and I thought why not try to get in this one…' he stated, his voice thin, just to distract her. Then, in a second, he turned on his back, gun aiming up and fired once, and once only.

Two seconds later, the body of Jeanie dropped to the floor in the most messy manner, looking almost as if she was knocked unconscious, or just sleeping. Except there was a single hole in the middle of her forehead now, spoiling the artistry of her pretty face. Oh, well. John slowly stood up, trying not to slip in growing poodle of blood from the wound. Caph stared at him, unblinking.

'Well, let's untie you' said John a bit too cheerfully, relishing in the surrealism of the situation. He bent, feeling the dress tighten in warning, and quickly untied the ropes around girl's wrists (slightly swollen and raw from rough fabric). She quickly removed the gag and freed her legs, till staring wordlessly at John, as if in search for answers.

'She was about to kill us' he explained with a sigh, not bothering with lengthy explanation of the fact that he didn't really want to kill the woman, those were his bloody army reflexes, this 'we come in peace, shoot to kill' politics that his brain was so keen on using. Ah, well, we all have our faults, don't we.

'Oh, that explains it, I guess' she nodded, still not convinced in slightest. 'Am I allowed to ask why are you wearing… a dress? A golden one, specifically? It does wonders to you complexion, but is totally… not you, if you know what I mean.'

'Sherlock chose it, not me, really' he explained, checking the dead girl's gun, and shoving it into Caph hands. Only then he saw her half smile. 'What?'

'No, nothing… I mean, I've never saw you wear a dress before. For Mr. Holmes… How very _romantic!_' she sighed in content and, what astonished John, not teasingly. He narrowed his eyes, thinking about all invectives he wanted to throw in her face, hell, in the face of anyone implying he was Sherlock's boyfriend, I mean, honestly, it was XXI century, couldn't people get through their sculls that two men could live together, spending majority of their time together and sometimes sleep in one bed (occasionally! And it's just sleeping) can be just friends? Well. He saw where confusion could come in, but, honestly!

'We're not together' he said instead, walking to the door. 'You stay here, try to call Anthea and tell her to stand by. Something's wrong, and I'm going to find out what, ok?'

'Sure, I'm your secretary now' she sneered, but obediently took the phone. 'One thing is cool, this isn't big M's doing'

'Whose?' John stopped suddenly, turning to look at the girl who was staring at the dead body distractedly.

'Oh. Moriarty's. His people call him that, and she didn't recognize this. I mean, he's surname begins with M, and he behaves sometimes like this red M&M's… '

'How the hell do you know how… You're _working _for him?' John was torn between utter disbelieve and deadly rage, if this was Jim's contact…

'Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Watson! It's just… Weeell. Myboyfriendkindofdoes. But we're just dating, I'm not selling no information, I swear, he's just soooo sweet! And kind! And he's so patient… That must be why he's a sniper, all this patience is not wasted.' She started babbling uncontrollably, and John still was torn, this time between laughing out loud and beating some sense into her thick skull. Going out with … Ugh. 'Don't tell the Boss, okay? He'll kill me, and it's just… I'm sitting with him and Cujam on this roof, looking in your windows, all the time. How do I get the social life?'

'Okay, not a word from me. Keep calm and carry on!' John saluted carelessly and almost run out of the door in search of Sherlock and Mycroft.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Part Two... he're the action, guys! Enjoy, and please, please review!

* * *

Part 2

'You should have bought yourself a white rabbit' stated authoritatively Sherlock, his featured showing utter boredom, not that he had much to do right now. Being tied to a chair made it a bit hard to actively participate in majority of Sherlock's hobbies, after all. He and Mycroft made the same mistake in carelessly walking into the quiet ballroom, without checking what they can find inside; sheer stupidity, wasn't it? So it was not really surprising that they were now tied to the chairs placed in the middle f the room, with two thugs aiming at their heads from behind. Not surprising at all, considering that the rest of guests and hosts were gathered under one of the walls, guarded by at least seventeen gunmen armed in AK47.

Those evil minions were dressed from head to toe in black, tightly fitting uniforms, taken straight out from Bond, or other action films, making this quite surreal, if not completely bizarre. Theman with the plan, evil genius of the whole thing, turned out to be tall, sickly thin man, bald and pale, also dressed in black outfit that probably would be fitting better the broom handle, and was ridiculously stretched over man's limbs.

'And here I thought pop culture was lost to Holmes brothers…' laughed (evilly, of course) General Mort, as introduced himself this evil mastermind. 'you cannot imagine how happy it makes me, that I can now kill the two of you, ooooh, it's such an honour, such a joy in my old years! Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock Holmes, in my very own hands! You two, at my mercy…'

'Yes, we get it, you don't have to repeat yourself' interrupted Sherlock, who was starting to get bored, even though it was _dangerous_ situation. 'Just give us this speech of yours, I cannot wait to hear what we did to you…'

'We, dear brother, did nothing, it's a simple matter of prestige' said Mycroft with a long-suffering sigh, and man in black laughed in amusement.

'Yes, exactly! Well done, Mycroftie-boy, well done indeed! You might be daddy's favorite boy now!' he said, in sing song voice, what caused Sherlock to mutter something what sounded suspiciously like 'oh, kill me now'. 'But I'll deal with the two of you later, much later. Now I must proceed with mu plan. Do you know what do I want?'

'Looking at your attire, manner of speech and the name you've chose, you wish to take over the world. Boring, really' stated Sherlock, what had earned him a hard punch in the face, so if it weren't for thug behind him, the chair would come crashing down on the floor. Thin, red line of blood made slowly its way down from Sherlock nose, making him even more menacing.

'Yes, I want to take over the world! But it is not boring! Not at all! I will cause world war three, you hear me, ambassadors? World war three, between Russia and America!'

'That is crazy, the Cold War ended long time ago, mister!' shouted American ambassador, James Spearson, short, old man in slightly too big tuxedo, waving is hand as if it was proving his point. Rominiecow, on the other hand, was more bemused than angry.

' Really? We have no means to fight the entire world, mister, and that should be enough of the reason for your plan to fail'

'No, no, no! You see, There will be no America and no Russia in next 24 hours. There will be nothing, and form that nothingness I shall come and take what is left!'

('That makes no sense' muttered Sherlock, but Mycroft shushed him with a piercing glare of doom)

'And you will be my audience, my sweet, overly intelligent and cultural audience. I'll get the codes to American and Russian nuclear missiles, and fire them at each other! Oh, the chaos!'

'I will tell you nothing, I do not KNOW American nuclear codes, and even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you, _General_' spat Spearson, defiantly crossing his arms on the chest. General Mort waved in disinterest.

'I already have those, bought them on e-bay. You Americans, are just too easy, now, the Russians, on the other hand, are a hard nut to crack'

No one could decide which of two ambassadors was funnier: Spearson, who was opening and closing his mouth at regular intervals making quite good fish impression, or Rominiecow, smugly glaring at his colleague. Mort took a few steps to the left, then to the right, and finally stood in front of the window.

'But there is one person among you, who knows all about Russian codes…'

'Not me, I assure you!' said tall Russian with the goatee, smugness all gone now. 'And neither knows my personnel!' Several people in the crowd started nodding violently, but another dismissive wave of the hand was their answer.

'General Jan Rzepicki, please come forward! Oh, no one knows what you did in Moscow, or that you still have those little contacts of yours… And that you just enjoy _knowing,_ don't you, knowing that you can end the world as you know it, destroy Russia, destroy America, destroy peace! You're in the spotlight now! Or rather, you will be in spotlight of interrogator in a minute now. Gentlemen, escort general to his new rooms!'

Two of the thugs that were standing near the door moved swiftly and efficiently, quickly grabbing pale, round man, and started dragging him to the entrance, but Rzepicki stood his ground.

'Mort, I might hate Russians. I might hate Americans. I might even crave for the real war… but I will never tell even my shoe number to a little sniveling worm like you' said he, with dignified calmness in his voice, as he pulled his arms from the thugs' hold. 'Just point me the way, lads'

General Mort followed this departure with his eyes, smiling with joy. Then he looked at both Holmses, and the corners of his mouth travelled even further up.

'I shall enjoy killing you, I shall enjoy it very, very much'

Outside one of the many close door to the ballroom, John have heard enough.

* * *

'Okay, so how about a pint for each?' asked Cujam, dealing the cards among himself and two guys with AK47, who were in charge of kitchen staff. Majority of people from kitchen were General Mort's men (and women) who immediately changed into those black robes of theirs and run to do some secret and important stuff that evil minions do when they are not being killed by the hero. Only seven, including Cujam, were not in this conspiracy, what was the most important factor to assign here only two men to keep an eye on the prisoners.

Two not very bright guys, Cujam had to admit. It took him exactly ten minutes to talk them into playing a poker together. Some people (Boss included) thought that Cujam was intelligent, but slow, too calm and with no social skills; therefore their opinion on him was not really flattering, and usually was bordering between 'acceptable' and 'use as a last resort, not before you've run out of trained animals'. And they were right. Usually. Because Cujam had one talent – he was a guy, _who knows what you mean_!

'Oh, I'd love to, but the boss will be pissed if he catches us. He such a nag!' said short guy in glasses, picking up the card with a painful sigh. Cujam nodded in sympathy.

'I know what you mean! You should see MY boss! _What are you doing, blab la bla, no watching telly while patrolling, bla, bla, bla_! Terrible!'

'Yeah, completely crazy. And once he told me to sit in a damned cellar for a week, to keep some psycho kid from escaping his cell, I mean, madness!'

'I so know what you mean, buddy. Mine forces me to sit on a damned roof for 12 hours a day, watching his brother and his boyfriend…'

'You know, I think I'll drink that pint'

* * *

John practically run into the ladies room, shouting 'What said Anthea?'

Caph didn't even tear her eyes from her tic tac toe game, painted in blood, that she was entertaining herself with.

'Nothing, there is no signal here' she said, drawing a circle that finished the game with a draw. 'But before you say anything, I've made my way around the building – fatty went to fourth room on the right on first floor. There are two or three guys in the kitchen, I wasn't able to look in properly. The majority of those deacheaters is in the conference room upstairs, last door on the left. About… thirty people? There are several guys outside, no telling how many.'

'Nice. That's nice. How you were able to get all of this?' asked John in wonder, he had real trouble getting back to the restroom that was just a few steps away from the ballroom's door, and she just… walked around? Getting all those info?

'Easy, I looked _busy._ That always works. Besides, I'm an agent, I must know those things!'

'What, you had a course? How to become invisible in 5 easy steps?'

'Nah, I watched the A Team series and James Bond movies!' they both smiled, a little crazy. 'So, what's the plan, deputy boss?'

John stared at the phone, dozens of possibilities skipping in his brain. Total chaos. He buried head into his hands, thinking what Sherlock would do, and coming up only with more and more eloquent insults. He looked through the window, thinking that probably people in buildings around are sleeping soundly, while here, the tragedy can strike any minute. A window?

'Caph?'

'what, deputy boss?'

'I've got completely crazy plan.'

'Will do'

'Give me your phone and tell me, which one is your boyfriend's number?

* * *

'George!'

'Mhh'

'George! There is someone behind our window!'

'Lemmie sleep, you crazy old woman'

Tap, tap, tap!

'She taps on the window!'

'Oh for the god's sake, so open it!'

The window frame cracked and a woman in gold dress slipped inside.

'Thank you' she said in extremely male voice. 'There is one HELL of the party… Pease don't go to sleep, I'll be back in the moment!'

* * *

'C'mon, Anthea, just pick it up!' this was the third time John tied to call her, and the only answer was slight beeping of waiting signal. He stood in the back alley, near the embassy, hidden in the shadow so that two snipers in the windows wouldn't see him. Probably nothing would happened, but he wasn't Sherlock to just run into danger because there was one. No, he had to have a legitimate reason… For example a whole building of important people taken into custody by come half-intelligent psycho.

Speaking of psychos… John took the phone and dialed another number, because there were only two people who could help him right now, if the normal authorities were not to be involved.

The phone was picked after third ring with a quick 'Hello, sweetie , I can't talk now, Big M ,Tiny M and I are on small but deadly mission…'

'It's not Caph here. It's John Watson'

'Oh. OH. Er? I'm not home?'

'Just give me Moriarty, and why, if you're on a _mission_, I can hear Top Gun theme? I'm telling this to Caph'

'No! Please! Wait a minute… Boss! BOSS! There… There is John Watson on the line, sir, he wants to speak to you.'

'Johnnie-boy! What a pleasant surprise! But you see, I'm watching Top Gun now, then there is Grease and How I Met Your Mother! Bye…'

'If you hang it up now, you will never know what is happening in Polish embassy'

'Sebbie, darling, change to some news channel! Bye, Johnny…'

'You won't see this in the news. But it'll destroy the world in next 24 hours, if you don't listen me out.'

'I'm all ears now, babe, c'mon feed me your story. Sebbie, you naught boy, Cartoon Network is NOT a news channel! '

'There is a psycho here who wants to start world war three. He has taken about 60 hostages and it doesn't look too good right now.'

'Johnny. _Johnny._ I am a consulting _criminal_ not consulting _good guy at your service_. I rather like the idea of third world war, don't you too, Sebbie? It could be fun, with all those fighting, guns, death and blood. Blood especially. '

'That guy captured Sherlock and wants to kill him in next few hours'

'…Seb? We're going out, get your guns darling! Just tell me where you are Johnny, we'll be there in five.'

'Thought you might feel this way'

* * *

Second call was easier to make.

'Who the bloody hell are you and why it couldn't wait till morning?'

'Hello Greg, it's me, John.'

'Oh, hell, what has Sherlock done this time?'

'Nothing. He's been captured, by the way. But I've got a nasty situation in the Polish embassy, some psycho took over it and wants to take over the world. We've got to keep this quiet, and it's unofficial; thing… But I need help.'

'Sure… How many people you need?'

'How many can you get to run around without getting paid?'

'Good question'.

* * *

'That. Is. Just. Beautiful' squeaked Moriarty in delight, eyeing John from head to toe, as if trying to memorize him in a dress, high heels, make up and ridiculous wig. Next to Jim stood two guys in loose but stylish black outfits, riffles hanging on their back; one, smaller with several horizontal scars on his face, looked green, what could be seen even in the dim light of streetlapms. 'Johnny - boy, next time I kidnap you I'm making you wear a dress, you look absolutely stunning! Even my Sebbie thinks so, don't you, sweetie? So, where is that _amateur _who wants to kill _my_ Sherlock?'

'Stay right where you are, and put your hands up!' the voice rang out, preventing John from answering. 'Ha, I've finally got you, Moriarty! You and your co-workers! I knew you were behind this!'

John turned around lowly, just to come face to face with a barrel of the gun, held firmly by Lestarade, who was flanked by Donovan and Anderson, both with guns pointing at Moriaty.

'Hi, Greg'

DI almost dropped his gun; Anderson did, what earned him warned nudge from Sally.

'JOHN? What the…!'

'Isn't it just cool? Johnny, I see you're not wasting any resources, nice one!' Moriarty gave a mocking applause. Lestrade moved slightly to the left, aiming at him, but John patted him on the back soothingly.

'I's all right, I asked them to be there. To deal with this we'll all the help, we can get, so please try not to arrest them before it's over, okay? And if you say a word about my clothes, I shall make. You. Suffer. Jim, do you have a map of this place?'

Moriarty suggestively waved with a roll of paper held n left hand, pointing at the still having him on their gunpoint policemen. John just gave a long-suffering sigh, what gave them the motivation to lover their weapons.

'Okay gentleman… and lady' started doctor Watson, taking the map from winking suggestively Jim and spreading it for everyone to see.

Explaining the grand plan of his took exactly five minutes.

'Okay, so there in no time to waste, then' said Lestrade, still eyeing warily Moriarty and his men. 'Quite a good plan, I think'

'You know, I find it somewhat reassuring, Sebbie' said Moriarty, smiling cheekily to grumpy Sally Donovan, who was looking at him with barely contained disgust. 'The Scotland Yard finest, obeying some drag queen doctor. Crime has high chances here'

'Shut it, Jim, and play nice hissed John, adjusting socks in his bra (while ignoring the looks it was earning him). 'And now let's just go, okay?'

* * *

'So. What should I do _first_? Torture is such a complicated issue!' General Mort was going through tools scattered on a metal table… some of which were taken straight out of horror movies. Sherlock, keeping up appearances, just rolled his eyes. Mycroft, on the other hand, looked at the tools with genuine interest, because not every day you can see an eyelash curler used in such a context.

'First, mister, you should _think._ What are you doing?'

General turned around, eyelash curler still in his hand, to see who would be stupid enough to question him. Leaning casually on the doorframe stood Jim Moriarty smiling warmly, offering a single business card to the tall military man. After a quick wink at Sherlock, before general had time to answer properly or to order his man to shoot, consulting criminal continued, still in extremely friendly way.

'My dear, this plan of yours… it could be good. Everyone, at least everyone who means something, enjoys a good, bloody world war. But you have done something very, very bad, and because of that your plan will crash and _buuurn_' the delight at the last world was evident.

'Who the hell are you?' demanded General, his eyes narrowing. Jim was really hurt.

'I am really hurt. I am… something like criminals' sassy gay friend, but much cooler and more funnier. And I have better scarf. I am JIM MORIARTY!' he laughed evilly, waiting for the reaction. He got none, if you don't count muffled 'oh god, the only thing missing is Anderson and music form Glee…' from Sherlock. 'I am Jim Moriarty. You must have heard about me…'

'Nope. Kill him' ordered general, turning to Holmes brothers again… or rather, wanting to, as he spotted in one of the mirrors, that on the middle of his forehead was one, single, red dot.

'Ah, yes, I've got a snipers up there, you see…' Jim made a vague wave of the hand, his smile wild and crazy. 'So if I were you, even though you brain capacity is somewhat microscopic, I'd order your men to drop their guns'.

'Why are you here, why do you want to stop me, if you like the idea of war?' asked bravely general, trying to look as intimidating as he could with a eyelash curler in hand. Jim 'tsk'ed.

'You see, you made a grave mistake. And the key word here is _graaaave_. You, stupid, useless amateur in completely ridiculous attire, wanted to KILL MY SHERLOCK HOLMES!' the nice, friendly smile disappeared, replaced by cold fury. 'There is only one person who can kill Sherly, and it's ME. Personally. With those hands, not even with prosthetic ones. So when I had this hysterical call from his pet doctor, I dropped everything, hell, I missed Grease for god's sake, just to come here to get you.'

Moriarty psyched out, gesturing wildly, his eyes blazing with anger.

'Grease? Really?' asked Sherlock, surprised, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. Jim just nodded. 'I'm… flattered.'

General Mort was still not convinced, as he didn't order his men to lover their guns.

'You're bluffing. If I die, you die… And you don't want THAT' said he suddenly, tilting his head up and speaking to the ceiling. 'Downey, Stills, get into those air ducts, and bring here this sniper.'

'Oh, you've got more men monitoring situation in here, wise.' Said Moriarty. 'Point for you, you bitch.'

* * *

'Tell me again, why do we have to liberate he kitchen?'

'Because'

'I don't want to liberate it, sweetie. I'm a sniper, not a karate kid. If something happens to my arm…'

'Shut up, were saving Cujam, you dolt! Besides, if we do it quickly, we can sneak into the second room on the left… and…He, he, he.'

'He, he, he. I love your perverted mind. I love you, Pumpkin.'

'I love you, Honey-Bunny!'

They kicked the kitchen door in unison, opening them wide, their guns pointed straight ahead.

'Okay, Everybody be cool this is a rescue mission! Any of you fuckin' pricks move and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of you!' shouted Caph, relishing in her own movie reference.

Cujam, who was sitting on the counter smoking a cigarette, applauded mockingly. Two liberators looked around, at seven completely free waiters, sitting and eating ice cream in the corner, and two of Mort's men, tied to the chairs.

'Took you long enough' said Cujam.

* * *

'Greg, Sally, it's forth room on the right. Take care, it shouldn't be too hard' mutterd John one last time, exchanging a quick handshake with each of them just before he and Sebastian quickly made their way upstairs to get rid of thirty Mort's man, while Lestrade and Donovan took care of Polish general,

'Take care yourself!' sneered Sally to absent friend, moving into corridor after Inspector, her gun clutched tightly. Seven steps from the searched door, they heard a baffled 'hey!' from behind, what caused her to turn swiftly around. Without thinking, really, she smacked thug's skull with a barrel of her gun, with a fluent movement of a leg tripping him; her final touch was well placed roundhouse kick, that landed straight on falling man's face, knocking him unconscious. All this, done in almost perfect silence, took less than two seconds.

'Nice one' whispered Lestrade, and Sally shrugged.

'Well, when one lives alone, one has to learns these things. Open those?' she whispered back, as they stood on the positions, flanking the door.

'Be my guest' said Lestrade, so she carefully tried the doorknob… and with slight click opened a door, allowing Lestrade to kick them and get in with his gun aimed, shouting 'Freeze'. Sally quickly followed, closing the door behind them. Inside there were three guys in black clothes, bent over one round old man, who was tied to a dentist's chair; he appeared to be unconscious, what had probably something to do with the milky substance that was inserted into his bloodstream through IV in his left arm.

The thugs froze, as was ordered.

'Good. Now, step away from this man…' Sally didn't exactly hear what Lestrade said next, as pain exploded in her skull, nearly knocking her unconscious, but making her drop the her knees, gun forgotten.

In this moment Greg saw fourth man, just behind his back, who had hit Sally over her head with a stone paper weight. Not hesitating, in fluid motion, Lestrade pinned the man to the wall, at the same time shooting one of men standing near Rzepicki in a kneecap, another in the foot; he had to drop the gun, as the pinned man sunk his teeth in detective's hand, what caused him to cry out in pain. But one well placed kick in the groin later, the situation seemed to be under control, as Sally, still dizzy and with splitting headache, managed to get a right hold on her gun.

'Don't move, fucker, or I'll blow your brains out… and believe me, they will not have much to scrape off the walls…'

* * *

'You know, it could probably go smoother, if you'd take off those ridiculous heels' said Sebastian, who managed to run up the stairs in three long jumps; now he was standing on the second floor, leaning casually. He managed to take down two guards that spotted them, by throwing with deadly aim two zen meditation balls, that knocked the guys unconscious. John, who had some trouble with walking in his damned heels, only grunted.

'I kinda like them, you know?' said Doctor, finally reaching the storey. 'And I'm not fighting with bare feet, ever saw 'Die hard'?'

'Well, I don't recall the scene with Willis in heels, so… Heard that?' asked suddenly sniper, turning his head to the end of corridor. Seven of Mort's men could be heard from the other part of corridor, just beside the bend. 'Shit!'

John quickly assessed the situation, and checked the nearest door, which were, unsurprisingly, closed. Then he had an idea. He grabbed Sebastian in a hug, pressed himself to the wall, and with quick 'pretend to enjoy this' kissed him forcefully on the mouth. Sebastian, after a second of panic, returned the favour, his hand groping John' buttocks. It was so bizarre and just … wrong, that John just switched off the brain, trying not to think that he is kissing the man that almost killed him on a few occasions…

The steps drew nearer, and the cat-wails started.

'wow, man, slow down a bit!'

'Heh, get yourself the room, the two of you!'

The voices and laughs continued, further and further down the stairs, so two man stumbled away from each other, shocked and a bit wary of each other.

'That was unexpected and unwelcomed' said finally Seb, panting slightly and wiping John's saliva from his lips with a tissue.

'Well, you didn't have to squeeze my ass, now did you?' hissed John angrily, glaring at Moran. But saving the Holmes' brothers was more important now than being molested (well, he started that himself, after all) so with a sigh he offered 'Let's just forget it. It didn't just happened…'

Moran nodded and opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a loud "Hey, the two of you! Don't MOVE' from the stairs, where stood four general's minions, their riffles pointed for Moran and John, who turned simultaneously to see how to hide in the corridor; but there they met with seven barrels of guns, pointing straight for their hearts.

'Ah, we were in the TV, weren't we…' said brightly Moran, pointing with sharp nod on a camera, placed on their left. John suppressed the urge to bang his head on the wall. 'We're in big shit now… And they say being famous is all roses.'

'Yeah, you stupid faggots, you are in deep shit, just like this psycho in suit from ballroom and his Robin with a sniper gun' said one of thugs, smiling. He started talking something about superiority of normal people over homosexuals, but John stopped listening. They had to get to the ballroom before Sherlock and Mycroft get killed, if distraction in person of Moriarty failed… besides, John wanted to kill Jim himself, god help him. They had to get down, besides there were less people there, so…

Moran nudged him slightly, pointing almost imperceptibly at the curtains adorning the hall, hanging just so, that if they were dropped, John and Sebastian couldn't be seen by the guys on the corridor, and if they…

John nodded, blinking letter R in Morse, as in right curtain; in response, he'd gotten blinked out L.

They shot simultaneously, the bullets hitting hooks and releasing curtains that screened them from being seen; second later, they dropped to the ground, bullets flying over their heads as they rolled down the stairs, while shooting the guys on landing. When they reached it, there was no one here to put up any fight – John and Moran weren't crack shots for nothing, after all. The guys upstairs finally reached the conclusion that they could aim better if they were standing in front of the curtain, not behind it, and the shots were more accurate. Luckily, the handrail was a solid clock of marble, that made a nice hiding place form bullets.

'That's quite… unfortunate' mumbled John while changing a clip. Moran leaned out a bit, and gave two shots. Two cries of pain that followed were the best indicator of his shooting skills.

'Okay, I can hold them up, while you can go and save Jim and Holmes' answered Moran, as John suddenly stood up, gave three well aimed shots, and crutched down before any of the bullets could reach him. Three bodies dropped down the stairs.

'You sure you'll manage?'

'Watson, look who you are talking to. This guys are shooting like the damned A-team. '

'Cover me on three?'

'Got it.'

* * *

'I knew it. If there was someone that could spoil Moriarty's plan to save me, it would be you' groaned Sherlock, seeing Anderson led in by two thugs. Jim, tied to a chair next to him smirked slightly.

'Wasn't my plan, babe, If it was, even this joker wouldn't spoil it. My plans are foolproof'

'So who… Ach' sudden realization drowned on Sherlock's face. But before he could tell the world that it's his personal flatmate who made this crappy plan, and that he is personally extremely proud of it, general Mort had about enough.

'Okay, so now I'll kill this idiot, then you, mister, and last but not least… you two' he pointed his golden gun he get from leather holster at Anderson, then at Moriarty, and lastly at Holmes brothers. 'Nothing and NOONE is going to stop me…' he added in sing song voice, aiming for Anderson who shut his eyes tight. Sherlock tried to break his bonds for a hundredth time (ninety eighth, to be exact), while Mycroft opened mouth to run some interference, maybe buy some time…

The single shot rang out, and generals gun went flying to the floor. Everyone turned to look at the door.

'Noone?' asked innocently John Watson, his hair-do a little ruffled and askew, dress crumpled and with half of the sequins ripped out, with a gun pointed straight at the general. The minions didn't exactly know what to do, some raised their riffles, several dropped them, the majority just stood not quite believing. General just stared a minute, while Anderson cheered.

'Yes! I knew you'd come, Watson!'

'Nice entrance, Johnny – boy' added Jim, and Mycroft supplied 'And you learned how to walk in the heels, bravo!' what earned him several hard as stone stares (from Sherlock and Jim, mostly, as John didn't tear his eyes from general). Mort made a long-suffering sigh.

'That is complete disgrace to my plan. A man in a dress! Shoot…'

But when general started talking, John moved with a speed no one suspected he could manage. Four shots he made eliminated people guarding tied hostages, and by the time last body dropped, he was already near the closest thugs, hitting one's head with the gun's grip, while kicking another in the groin. Throwing his own gun at another guy's head, he snatched the riffles from slumping men, Dodging the single shots that rang out, he shot, guns in both hands, a few minions who tried to overturn the table and make it a fortification of the kind. Feeling someone approach from behind, John stomped with his heel on the thug's foot, and threw a roundhouse kick that sent him flying to the floor.

Majority of the thugs (ones with self-preservation instinct, probably) left their guns and started running to the door; John didn't pay them any heed, concentrating on the general, who was fumbling for the gun in the mess made by food from overturned tables.

One of the minions tried to hit John on the head with his riffle (as if forgettong that the thing could shoot), but ex-army surgeon evaded it easily, bending down, what allowed him to draw a knife from his opponent's boot… and place an elbow in guy's solar plexus.

Second later, John held the knife to general's throat. Several of the thugs, who were still in the room, tamely dropped their guns and held their hands in the air, not wanting to be on the bad side of the doctor.

In the stunned silence that followed Johns presentation of combat skills, Moran's clapping was even too loud.

'Bravo, Watson, and here I though I'll have to help you' he said, while waking up to Moriarty to untie him. 'Say, you're that good only in a dress, or it's 24/7 thing?'

Moran threw the rope to John, who quickly and efficiently tied Mort in a nice, tight package, ignoring the question, and proceeded to tie up completely tame now thugs. . Consulting criminal stretched, made a few jumps and blew both John and Sherlock a kiss.

'See you, darlings, later!'

'I'm going to catch you one day, you know that' said Sherlock, who finally managed to free himself from the bounds and stood up, a bit unsteadily. Jim blew him another kiss on the way out.

'Yeah, yeah, see ya!'

'Jim?' shouted John after him, pausing in mid-knot 'Thanks!'

Sherlock untied Mycroft (but couldn't be bothered with Anderson, whose cries for help went unnoticed) and quickly run to John, holding him by the arms and looking intently in his eyes, as if to determine whether it was really him. John smiled.

'Next time… no dress, okay? Do you know how uncomfortable is…'

He didn't get to finish, as Sherlock _hugged him._ As in, held him close, eyes closed and heart beating way to fast (John thought it strange, that he could feel the steady pulse of his flatmate's)… smaller doctor, sore, tired and with his head spinning, relaxed slowly in the warm embrance.

He saw Mycroft, shoulders slumped unnaturally, turn away from the scene, heading to ambassadors and other guests, who sat on the floor, still paralyzed in fear… or, in some cases sleeping, and felt an irrational pang of guilt. He closed his eyes, lost in Sherlock's embrace.

* * *

'Where do you think you're going' said Lestrade, gun pointed at another group of minions escaping from the ballroom. 'Guns on the ground, hands on your neck, turn to the wall. Sally?'

It was a routine now. He stood with his gun pointed, and Sally would tie the men up, using ropes found in the kitchen by the 'loyal' waiters, who, after being given a gun, made quite a good guards. One of them had stayed with polish general, who seemed unharmed and regained consciousness after unhooking him from the IV and several tries to wake him up later… Lestrade was sure he needed to be seen by a doctor, but left the decision to cal an ambulace to someone who knew what was it all about.

Sally sat down heavily. One more to hospital, thought Greg as waiters led tied men out of the corridor, but if she could function now there was great chance she didn't even have a concussion. Well, after all she had…

Sergeant looked at him, as if knowing she was on his mind.

'Don't even try to joke about my _thick skull_'

'I wouldn't dream of it'

* * *

'I've got to go!' muttered Carl, seeing Moran wave up to him. He kissed Caph on her cheek, smacked Cujam on the head and left quickly, skipping on the stairs, before he could return the favour. Both friends looked at each other, then at the screens of embassy's surveillance. After taking care of kitchen, he and Carl went to take down the snipers on the front that Watson saw, as Caph fight her way into the security room, seconds too late to prevent John and Moran form being discovered.

And while Caph saw all of those superb fight scenes (and talked about them constantly, whenever they slipped into the room to see what's going on) they were deprived of this small joys of agent's everyday life.

'So it was cool…' he started.

'Yeah, like James Bond, but with less explosions. And Bond was a llama, Watson did it all in a dress! It was so frigging cool, especially when you consider that he had kissed with Moran and cuddled with Holmes.' Caph was almost jumping up and down from excitement. She stopped, suddenly. 'Oh. And I know why Anthea didn't answer the phone. You remember our last solo mission?'

'The one in Cornwall?' asked Cujam, trying hard to remember some details. 'The one that we called her every five minutes to ask what the hell are we supposed… Oh. Sudden realization hit him like a hammer.

'Yeah. Me too' she sighed in despair. They sat down together, in comfortable silence, watching the screens while waiting for the other Mycroft's men to arrive to clean the mess.

'I'd give my right hand to see it all' mumbled finally Cujam, pointing at the screen. 'Those fights!'

'I don't need a hand… But you are leaving me and Carl on the roof together at least one tome a week' she answered, while watching her nails in fake interest.

'You didn't!'

'I soooo did!'

'No! You've recorded it?'

'You BET I did. You know what that means? I'M A QUEEN OF YOUTUBE NOW.'

'You want to die. But I don't mind, really, if you show me the film first.'

FIN


End file.
